


The Tightrope Walker

by Caro Dee (Caro_Dee)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Cheating Fantasy, F/M, Heterosexism, M/M, Masturbation, Sentinel/Guide trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-30
Updated: 2011-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caro_Dee/pseuds/Caro%20Dee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sentinel will always love a guide. It's his destiny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tightrope Walker

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to my betas: T.W., Ozsaur, Pam, and Shiredancer. I originally wrote this concept up as a gen short story, The Price of Survival. The whole Laura's pheromones/uncontrollable response to Alex thing has always made me uncomfortable. The bonding scenario seems to also fall into that same continuum. Jim's sexuality gets regularly hijacked and Jim is not a man that likes to be out of control or used without his consent.

Paying special attention to his reps, Jim forces himself to concentrate on the here and now and ignore the anticipation roiling his gut. He carefully doesn't think about the fact that his cock is hanging heavy between his legs, not quite hard but not flaccid either. He's in public here, so he's glad the shorts are loose and the sweat-soaked T-shirt is long.

He finishes up his free weight routine and puts the weights back. Twenty minutes on the treadmill and he can leave. Starting off slow and gradually lengthening his stride, he feels his muscles loosen and open up until he's flying. His body hits its second wind and he could go on like this for hours, just savoring the adrenaline rush. If he didn't have something better waiting.

In the locker room, he hits the shower just long enough to sluice the acrid smell of his own sweat away, no more than that. He'll be taking a more thorough shower afterwards. Throws his exercise clothes back on, grabs his sport bag, then he's out of there.

The night air is cool on his heated skin as he walks past his truck and heads down the street towards the Stratford Hotel. Fancy name for a place that might have been nice once, but location, as they say, is everything. The bored-looking desk clerk takes his cash through the hole in the protective glass and slides his key over with barely a glance. It's not a place that's fussy about their clientele. He's been there before.

The elevator is slow and the hall lighting is dim. The lock on Room 28 sticks a little and he has to jiggle the knob and force it. The room is pretty much like the other rooms he's seen, faded blue/beige color scheme and a musty smell. No need to switch on the lights since the neon sign out front is more than enough to see by. He drops the sport bag on the dresser and goes over to the bed, stripping off the blankets and bedspread. His nose tells him at least the sheets are clean. The pillow, though, joins the bedspread on the floor.

He goes back to the sport bag and begins emptying it, laying the contents carefully to the side. There's a false bottom that lifts up and underneath it lies his special collection -- Jim smiles, grimly amused -- of sentinel sex aids. Blair doesn't know about this and, if Jim is very, very careful, he never will.

He pulls out four plastic baggies and sets them on the bed. Each baggie contains a cassette tape and an item of clothing. He doesn't need to label them. All he has to do is crack the seal and the scent tells him who is who. He runs his fingers along the row, prolonging and drawing out his choice. His erection is almost painful now.

There could be five baggies here, but Megan is not an option, much as Jim might wish otherwise. He's very much attracted to her, but Blair reads him too well and Jim won't risk it. Ever. So he covers up with bickering and jokes. Stares at her ass sometimes and meets Blair's eyes to find a matching cheerful leer. Blair trained Megan to back Jim up when Blair's not there, but still doesn't seem to understand that Megan's a _guide_.

Blair. Jim smiles with rueful affection, thinking about his partner, who's currently out spending the day museum-hopping with a friend.

He'd fought the attraction at first, not wanting his sentinel side to dictate his choice. He was shocked the first time he'd gotten hard for Blair, found himself standing too close, sniffing the complex aroma of Blair's skin, watching the sexual flush spread over face and neck as Blair, wide-eyed, responded to his sentinel's arousal. He wanted to grab Blair and simply take him, knowing that Blair was his and would let him. Shaken and repelled by his own hunger, Jim had torn himself away, stammered some excuse and made himself scarce.

Days later, Blair had tracked him down and quietly told him the results of his research. Something about the merge and the Temple of the Sentinels changing things. They were connected now in some fashion. Drawn to each other. It was a genetic thing, designed to keep sentinel and guide together. Perfectly natural. Nothing to be ashamed about.

Jim had nodded at intervals in Blair's lecture. Then he told Blair he still wasn't interested. Because he wasn't... then. It was no part of his life plan to shack up happily ever after with a man -- and this was Blair, his guide, so once started, it would be forever. He'd distanced himself from Blair and stepped up his dating and discovered that, while he wasn't impotent and could still bed women, it just didn't thrill him the same way any more. Everything felt muffled and distant. Even Veronica hadn't been enough; Veronica, whom he'd lusted after for years.

The dissertation disaster rubbed Jim's nose in Blair's loyalty. There was no doubt in his mind any more that Blair loved him, not after he flushed his whole life down the toilet to protect Jim. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was love, but not long afterwards Jim had held Blair -- for comfort, he told himself -- and then they were kissing and rolling around frantically on the couch. It had been so good, so wonderfully intense, that Jim had simply given in to the inevitable.

Blair thrived under Jim's continuous, loving attention. The fallout from the press conference seemed all but forgotten, as Blair wandered through his days stunned and glowing with joy. The part of Jim that needed to be needed reveled in his power to please Blair, and Jim had fallen like a ton of bricks.

Jim is in love with Blair, but also knows he didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. The same part of him that resents being a sentinel at all resents the inevitability of this thing between them. Most of the time, Jim doesn't blame Blair, because Blair's just as trapped although he seems happy enough. His guide is amazing; Jim is damned lucky to have him and he knows it. But the lack of freedom scrapes Jim raw sometimes and he needs to run to some place where Blair isn't, so that he doesn't lash out. Blair understands and lets him go; welcomes him back a couple hours, even a couple days, later.

It was during one of those temporary flights that he met Marie. She walked past him in the street and Jim was instantly hard. He'd followed her into a bar and bought her drinks and almost, almost gone to bed with her. He'd wanted to badly. It was only the fact that he couldn't bear the thought of betraying Blair that held him back. He'd taken her home and, ignoring her disappointment, left her at the door. Then he'd gone into the dark alley beside her apartment building, listened to her heartbeat and jerked off. He'd bitten his fist in the ferocity of his orgasm and had to hide the bruise from Blair for days.

It wasn't until several months later, when he met Peter, that he understood what was going on. Marie and Peter were both guides; they stirred him in a way that non-guides couldn't anymore. They weren't his guide and Jim didn't love them, but he was deeply, agonizingly in lust with them. He wanted to touch them, taste them, plunge into them, let his senses ravage him. Except...

Blair.

So he went home instead and fucked Blair into happy exhaustion, thinking about Marie's soft skin, Peter's long legs. But that felt wrong too, leaving a bitter, shameful aftertaste.

Blair deserves better, but Jim just can't stop himself. He keeps recognizing more guides. They are unaware, unawakened, but still guides, each and every one calling to him, pulling sweet heat from his gut. He has no idea why there are so many potential guides and no sentinels. He speculates that, in this modern world, too many sentinels are lost to the onslaught of the senses, leaving a surplus of guides, but he's not about to ask Blair.

Jim knows there's a chance that one of these days he'll give in to temptation and once he fucks one, he'll go after them all. Then he'll lose Blair and that's unacceptable. So he's come up with this compromise -- he can give in to his desires and still remain faithful to Blair. It's not perfect but it's a solution he can live with. He has to.

Enough teasing. He hesitates a moment between two of them. He hasn't done Dylan in a while and there's a wildness, a roughness to Dylan that he finds compelling. But in the end, he makes the choice he knew he would. Tamara is the newest -- new enough to give him that extra thrill of discovery. He still finds unexpected grace notes in the scent of her body, the richness of her voice.

The others -- Marie, Peter, Dylan -- go back in the bag. Jim opens Tamara's baggie and pulls out the red panties. He takes a quick sniff and closes his eyes as a wave of lust slams into his cock. God, _yes_. He pulls out the cassette as well, slips it into the Walkman and turns it on. Tamara's voice fills the room and he lets it wash over him, feels his gut clench as her vibrations move through him.

He's not particularly proud of the fact that he maneuvered each one into a more private setting to secretly record their voices for this. He interrogates them carefully, with much flattering interest, and they open like flowers, spilling their life stories for him. He knows it's their own instincts responding to a sentinel, telling them he's trustworthy. At some unconscious level, they're maybe even courting him, trying to draw him to the bond. He's careful not to give them too much encouragement. Just enough.

He's even less proud of the fact that he regularly breaks in and digs through their laundry hampers. He's managed to square it with himself that they're better off with this than actually having him in their lives, but he knows that's mostly self-justification. He's a cop and he's breaking the law.

He does keep an eye out for them to make sure they don't get into trouble. He's warned off one abusive boyfriend and made some traffic tickets go away. It's not much -- limited to what he can do as a casual acquaintance and by the need to keep them away from Blair -- but he owes them. He never lets himself think that maybe he _needs_ to protect them.

He sets the volume for sentinel ears and lays it at the head of the bed, alongside the panties. It only takes him seconds to strip and lie down. For a moment, he lies there, feeling the anticipation, and then he sets aside the discipline he's needed all day to hold off until this moment. It's finally here; it's now.

Jim begins to run his hands over his body, feeling nerve endings leaping under the light touch of his fingertips. When he reaches his groin, his legs fall open eagerly to his own exploration. He begins to tremble, knowing what's coming. For a moment, he remembers Blair's hands doing this to him, sees the loving intensity of blue eyes, and his cock leaps. With a snarl, Jim pulls away from the image. Not here. Blair already has everything else, but not this.

Making love to Blair is the most incredible experience of Jim's life, but it takes everything from him. Jim's senses wrap themselves around Blair until he's the center of existence. Blair's pleasure becomes Jim's pleasure, focus narrows in on Blair and his moans and shaking and urgency. Even when Blair works Jim over, he gives himself up to Blair's rapt gaze. It's amazing, it's awesome, he comes like he's falling apart and the pieces will never be put back together again, and, as much as he craves it, it terrifies him to lose himself like that.

This is different. Tamara and the others exist for his pleasure. Nothing more. He can indulge himself, raise the senses as high as they will go, lose himself in his own ecstasy, and he is alone here -- no one to please, no one to love, no one to judge what happens -- just the endless, intoxicating, heightened nerve impulses to his brain.

The consolation prize for the Sentinel. Exquisite and bitter to the core.

Focusing intently, Jim tunes into the sound of Tamara's voice, the scent of her body, until he feels an almost audible click and he has his grounding. He can release his own control on his senses. Tamara guides him now.

Jim spreads his legs even wider and takes his cock in his right hand. The left hand is free to explore his body, to touch himself in all the right places, where he wants stimulus, the moment he wants it. His hand sweeps over his torso, up and down his sides, nails leaving a trail of sweet goosebumps that make him shiver in delight. He pinches and rolls his nipples, first the left, then the right one. Then his hand trails down to his thighs, gently scratches up his thighs, clasps his balls and squeezes just right, moves to press rhythmically against the sensitive place behind his balls. And all the time his right hand pulls steadily on his cock as his hips strain upwards into his grip over and over again.

The fantasy image of Tamara riding him, her slippery heat accepting his driving thrusts, his greedy hands, pale against the rich brown of her pointy, bobbing breasts, the elegant column of her throat as she throws back her head and moans. _Jesus!_

Too soon. Too soon. He freezes, hands falling to the side, and rides out the moment, fighting his body's urge to complete. His cock twitches in the air -- hungry and insistent. His breath is harsh in his throat.

When it's safe, he grabs his cock between two fingers, moving slowly and carefully, letting it build all over again. He sobs out his ecstasy without a thought to who might hear, might pass by in the hallway and stop to eavesdrop.

He's normally silent in his pleasure, always has been, although he's learning to let the sounds slip through because it pleases Blair so very much. But not now and not here. He could no more hold his pleasure in than he could stop. His own hoarse gasping forms a chord with Tamara's voice and that thrills him in its own special way.

He lets it build again and again, and each time he hovers in that moment of peak pleasure just before the point of no return. Then wrenches the dials down until it subsides to the point he can trust his discipline again. The neon-lit hotel room, the reality of his life outside this space, the wonderful yet intolerable necessity of Blair, disappear in the white-hot blaze of ecstasy that will last as long as he can hold off, as long as he can control, as long as he can _bear_ it.

 _Ah God, so good, so good._ He is sobbing breathlessly now. The intensity of pleasure so fierce that nothing else exists for him now. This is all he is -- this mindless stimulation of the pleasure center -- so incredibly good, so all-encompassingly rich. He's grateful that Blair's not here, can't (won't ever) see him in this animalistic rut, because -- God help him -- right now he wants this more than he wants Blair. He knows that's wrong, but he just doesn't care.

It's getting closer. He can't hold back, can't make it last any longer. He frantically picks up speed, anticipation driving the pistoning of his hips up into his hand. Images flicker swiftly through his mind, cycling through Tamara, Peter, Marie, Dylan, Megan, and now, even his need to distance from Blair can't keep the thought of him away. Blair bent in half, as Jim pumps eagerly away inside him. Tamara's breasts flash by. Megan's joyful, violent exuberance. The look of ecstasy on Blair's face. The exciting, earthy smell of his crotch. The heated flirtation of Marie's sideways glances. Peter's long legs and muscular ass as he jogs ahead of Jim's appreciative gaze. Blair's voice panting hoarsely in his ear. Dylan's raunchy laugh and the way his jeans strain over his crotch. Blair's ass as he pushes up into Jim's thrusts. The sight of his cock plunging in and out, the tight ring of muscle clenching around him. He wants... He needs... _Oh God oh yes oh yes yes yesss..._

His orgasm rolls over him, so piercing that every muscle in his body locks and he arches off the bed, crying with joy, his hand moving furiously as his come spurts up into the air to land on his chest, his face, the bed.

Even when the full force of orgasm is over, he's unwilling to let go. Collapsing back down on the bed, he continues touching himself, drawing out the pleasure. There's still sweetness here and he wants every last bit of it. Because this has to last him until the next time.

When Jim finally stops, he lies there, one arm thrown over his face. His body feels alive, euphoric, exhausted. He floats on the sensation for a while, even falls asleep for a few minutes. Then it's time to get up, wipe himself off, get dressed...

Go home.

He walks back to the gym slowly, enjoying the loose-limbed roll of his hips and the tingle of afterglow singing through his system. He feels wonderful, stripped clean and empty of all unruly desire. Scrubbing thoroughly in the gym shower is a sensual delight. When he's clean enough to pass even a sentinel's inspection, he dries himself off briskly and gets into his street clothes.

He takes the long way home, driving a circuitous route that allows him to cover Cascade pretty thoroughly. If Blair ever asked, he would say he's patrolling his territory and making sure everything is normal. Blair actually came up with that one and Jim finds it useful sometimes. He stops to pick up some coffee along the way. It means he'll have trouble falling asleep later, but it also revs him up and gets rid of that heavy-lidded, sated look he can see in the rear view mirror.

When he's ready, he puts tonight back in the box, the ecstasy, the defiance and the lingering guilt, and lets it go. Then he turns around and drives home.

Blair is already back from his outing with Marcie, one of the few Rainier friends who's stood by him. Jim climbs the stairs eagerly, listening to his guide's heartbeat and smelling the chicken sauteeing. When he unlocks the door and steps in, Blair looks up from stirring the wok, so much welcome and love shining in his face that Jim's breath catches in his throat.

He's irresistibly drawn to Blair's side, wrapping himself around that solid warmth, soaking all his senses in Blair. The connection between them is so much more intense and deeper than with the others. After everything they've lived through, the strength of this partnership can't ever be denied or replaced. Blair is his destiny and, in this moment, he has no regrets.

Blair tilts his head back and turns to accept a kiss. "Hey, there. Did you have a nice workout?"

"Uh huh," Jim mumbles, nuzzling into Blair's springy hair. He feels Blair's smile in the minute shift of muscles along his skull and his own smile widens.

"Glad you're home now."

"Oh yeah." Jim's arms tighten happily around his guide. "So am I."


End file.
